Give Me Strength
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: She catapults herself forward, towards the only boy she's ever understood completely, and relief saturates his features, such potent love in the set of his jaw that she swallows, hard.  He catches her with open arms.  Missing DE bridge scene from 3x11.


**A/N: Honestly, I just had to write this. It felt like we really deserved to see this scene.**

**Title from song of the same name by Snow Patrol.**

**P.S. I tweaked the conversation on the porch. Hope it doesn't bother anyone too much. Also, sorry this is so late…exams have been kicking my butt :(**

**Many thanks to Morgan (**LiveLaughDreamInspire**) and Carla (**Lizzy85Cec**). You guys are the absolute best, as always.**

_They may be right  
><em>_I may be foolish  
><em>_But I will wait for you.  
><em>_- "Take Your Time" by The Cary Brothers_

Elena walks down the road with tears in her eyes.

Her tears don't surprise her, of course. The sky is dark and the air is chilly and her ex-boyfriend just tried to kill her – on the same bridge her parents died on only a year and a half ago. It's only natural that she's crying, only realistic that the ground feels shaky beneath her tired feet. It's only to be expected that she feels like she might collapse if she doesn't stop soon.

But she can't stop, not really – not now. Behind her is devastation, the wreck of what she thought she and Stefan had. She has to leave that all behind, because she knows he's gone this time, knows that he's lost forever. And she doesn't feel sad, exactly.

She just feels empty.

Hollow, like there's a cavernous space in her chest, right where he used to be.

She instinctively doubles over, clutching her stomach, afraid she might throw up. She wraps both arms around herself, as if that can keep her together (as if anything can keep her together).

The miles stretch out before her, lonely and forlorn (endless), but she keeps walking, head down, hair blowing in the icy wind, sticking to her moist cheeks. She's not sure where she's going, only that she has to escape the rubble. The stars are too close now, the smell of burned rubber too heavy in her nose. She can still hear her own screams, shrill and terrified, still see the apathy in Stefan's eyes when he said the words she knew he meant.

_I don't really care what you think about me anymore, Elena._

She wants to hate him for that. She _should_ hate him for the contempt in his voice. But she doesn't hate him; she doesn't hate him at all. In fact, she still misses him.

This time, she hates _herself_. She hates herself for thinking an apology and a few kisses would fix this tangled, broken thing between them. She hates herself for believing a lie so thoroughly, so stupidly.

God, what is she even doing here? How did she even get here? Who _is_ she?

As she walks to nowhere in particular, she realizes that she has absolutely no idea.

…

She's been walking for only a few minutes when it dawns on her that she has no way of getting home. Stefan threw her phone out the window of his car as he drove them at that ungodly speed, and there isn't a gas station for miles around. Wickery Bridge's isolation scared her even before her parents' car accident, and now, she hugs herself tighter, shivering as uncertainty soaks her skin. She's sure Damon is looking for her, but he doesn't know where she is. Consequently, she's alone. She is utterly and completely alone, in the middle of nowhere.

Oh God.

This is the beginning of every slasher movie out there, she starts to think to herself. This is how girls get raped. This is how –

But she shakes her head, bites back tears, grits her teeth. She's strong enough to keep going, she sternly reminds herself. After all, it's what she's done for the past year, through all the supernatural perils and the death and the incomprehensible pain. She's just kept going.

She's just soldiered on.

So she holds her head high and she walks into the darkness, pretending the eerie silence doesn't overwhelm her. Every sound is magnified, every flap of a bird's wings crippling. She will never forgive Stefan for this, she knows. How could he _do_ this to her? How could he prey on her most painful weakness?

Suddenly, lights bloom in the distance, and she freezes, her bones bracing for impact. Rationally, she knows it's not Stefan, coming to kidnap her again; he's made his point with Klaus. And Klaus himself has no desire to kill her – not now, at least. But it could be some random person, sinister, foreign, whatever. No matter who it is, she is alone and unprotected.

She stands stock still as the lights draw nearer, unable to move, unable to do anything, even blink. She is so very, very afraid.

(She wonders when fear became more of a constant in her life than love.)

The car screeches to a stop, and she squeezes her eyes shut, accepting her fate in advance. She's lived long enough, she decides. She's survived longer than she should have, at least, given all the dangers centered on her. It doesn't seem so implausible that she would die a mundane human death after all the hoopla – it's ironic, really.

There's silence for a long moment, the wind whistling in her ears, quiet and wary, and she trembles, wondering what's taking so long. It is only fitting, she muses, that when she is finally ready to die, nothing happens.

Nothing at all.

But.

"Elena?"

And just like that, everything changes.

Her body gives way at the sound of his voice, and she opens her eyes immediately, tears welling up when she sees his familiar form. She feels her heartbeat speed up, feels her bones sigh and her skin tingle. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to survive this all-consuming ache, so she breaks into a run instead.

She catapults herself forward, towards the only boy she's ever understood completely, and relief saturates his features, such potent _love_ in the set of his jaw that she has to swallow, hard. He looks scared to death, and she runs faster still.

She doesn't want to keep him waiting any longer.

He catches her with open arms, and then he's holding her tighter than she knows how to cope with, and his eyes are wet and she's crying and nothing has ever been more comforting, not her mother's soothing touch or her best friend's loyal hand - not even the sun peeking out over the horizon or the taste of a perfectly charred grilled cheese sandwich.

Just him.

He's kissing her hair and rubbing her back, and she just sobs, sobs long and hard; she lets go. The air is filled with the sounds of her whimpers, and he holds her closer, pulls her in deeper. He whispers words she can't forget, not even if she wants to – and she doesn't; she doesn't want to forget anything about him.

It's _I'm so happy you're okay_ and _we'll make it through this_ and, more than anything else, _God, I love you. You have no idea how much I love you._

The problem is, she thinks she does.

He pulls back after a long, drawn out moment that still doesn't feel long enough, his eyes wide and frightened. His hands are on her face, smoothing her skin with a tenderness that shocks her, touching every part of her he can reach, as if to make sure she's really here.

She's gripped by the same alarming fear, shockingly enough; she grasps his cheeks, his hips, the hollow of his neck, pinching herself to make sure she's awake, to make sure he's _here_. She wants to dive into him, wants to crawl under his skin and make her home there.

(He's home to her, after all.)

"Are you okay?" He asks urgently, and it's only then that she realizes he's shaking, only then that she notices the unmistakable, naked worry blooming in his eyes. "God, Elena, are you okay? I got here as soon as I could, but I didn't know where you were. I was so afraid I'd lost you, I was so afraid you –"

He breaks off, closing his eyes, and she cries harder, lost in his words, lost in this boy who's given her everything and never, not even once, asked her for anything in return. His hands run over her body now, searching for bruises, scratches, anything, and she trembles again, trembles because there's such infinite concern in his touch.

As usual, she has no idea where this side of him came from.

She finds she can't say anything, even though she wants to thank him, wants to tell him she doesn't know what she's doing with him (all she knows is she can't bear the thought of hurting him). His hands float to her face again, settling on her neck, her lips, her cheeks. His eyes blaze.

"I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner," he repeats, biting his lip, looking at her with that telltale regret in his eyes. "I just –"

"I'm okay," she interjects firmly, wrapping her arms around him again, shivering, her tears drying on her taut, stretched-too-thin skin (she always feels stretched too thin these days). "I'm okay."

He seems mollified by her promise, but still he clings to her, as if he's afraid she will vanish before him. She has never seen him so scared; it's humbling.

She hugs him for a while, closing her eyes, shutting everything out of her senses but the smell of his familiar leather jacket. She doesn't want to feel anything but this. She doesn't want to feel the deep sting of Stefan's betrayal, the terror shooting through her at the sight of that infernal bridge, the sorrow at the knowledge that she can't save Stefan, not anymore. She doesn't want to know anything but this moment, not right now.

But she knows she has to. Alaric is probably wondering where she is. She still doesn't know what happened to Caroline. And she's so _tired_. It's time to go home, as much as she wishes she could ignore all her responsibilities.

So she whispers into Damon's shirt, curling her fingers into the fabric, trying to keep him with her just a little while longer, "Can you take me home?"

He kisses the top of her head, rubbing circles on her back, the movement so unlike the vampire she met only a year ago that she has to bite her lip to keep from crying again.

"Of course."

And so they go home.

…

They're quiet during the 30-minute drive. She recounts what Stefan did in rote, unembellished form, not bothering to include her feelings. Damon knows her well enough to read between the lines. Besides, she finds she doesn't have much to say, not much to reveal. She's angry. She's hurt. She's sad.

And still, she just feels empty.

(Or maybe she doesn't even know what she feels.)

He gets that, though (he always gets it). He reaches out to take her hand as they speed towards salvation, and she lets him.

After all this time, she finally lets him.

…

He walks her to her door, of course. She wants to say something to him, wants to properly communicate to him that she literally would not be still standing if it weren't for him. But all she can muster is a feeble: "Thank you for picking me up."

He nods. "Anytime," he says easily, and she can hear the love in his voice; it makes her stumble, as it always does.

She turns away, ready to go inside, even though she doesn't want to – she thinks she'd like to stay here with him, on her porch, the same porch where he kissed her just yesterday (she doesn't know what to think about that).

"You gonna be okay?" He asks gently, and just like that she's turning back to him, unable to move away from him (she's not sure she ever has been).

She shrugs, a nonchalance she doesn't feel despite her best efforts. "I'll survive," she says steadily, willing the words to be true. "Somehow, I always do."

He nods, but seems thoughtful about something. "Really, tell me," he murmurs seriously, and now his hand is moving towards her face, and she feels the spark of something unidentifiable light up in her chest, "Are you gonna be okay?"

He tips her chin up with two fingers, and she should shy away, she knows. This isn't the touch of a friend, or a family member, or a protector, or any of the convenient labels she tries to thrust upon him. This is an entirely intimate touch, and it is impossible to mistake it as anything else.

But she tilts her head, mustering a small smile even as tears fill her eyes. His eyes drop to her lips, and oh, how she wants him to kiss her, how she's _always_ wanted him to kiss her, even when she shouldn't have (especially when she shouldn't have). She doesn't know when it became unavoidable, this gigantic _thing_ between them, but she's not capable of ignoring it any longer.

She briefly considers giving in. It would be simple, really, natural.

But no.

"You can't kiss me again," she says, and she means it to come out strong and assured but she just sounds like a little girl.

He nods, and she feels something in her crack (every day, more and more of her just gives way to the hypnotic fire in his eyes). "I know," he says, and she trembles, because damn it, why does he sound so sure of himself, so comfortable with what's going on between them, when she can barely _breathe_ anymore?

God, she doesn't know what's wrong with her.

She takes a deep breath, searching his eyes, hoping that one day this whole thing will figure itself out. She can't see their happy ending at all, but maybe it's out there somewhere.

Maybe.

(Even if it feels impossible.)

"I can't," she says softly, at last, pleading with him to understand just this once, to understand that it's not for lack of desire or love or whatever else exists between them (she just _can't_). "It's not right."

His fingers trail off her chin, and she surprises herself by wanting him back, wanting it all back, all of him, forever. When she's standing here with him, it's so easy to forget that he turned her mother. It's so easy to forget that he's killed more people than she can count.

It's just so easy.

"No, it's right," he contradicts her, and suddenly it's like the world has stopped spinning, like everything she thought she knew isn't true at all, and she's not so sure she's alive right now. "It's just not right now."

She furrows her eyebrows, not entirely on purpose. Did he just imply that they have a _future_?

What the actual fuck?

He doesn't give her a chance to puzzle it out. He just nods, his eyes wide and sure, and whispers, as he has so many times before, "Goodnight."

He turns to walk away, and she knows this is the moment. Hell, it's always been the moment. If he walks down those stairs, it means they're going to wait. They're going to wait until Stefan gets back to normal, until he gets over himself and tries to win her back. They're going to wait until it's so difficult to live without each other that they have to ignore the guilt completely and go for it. They're going to wait until the danger is gone and the world has settled.

But she doesn't want to wait that long.

So she pulls him back, touches his arm, forces him to look at her. It feels like the bravest thing she has ever done, but also the most natural. She's never much believed in fate, but this, this right here, is the destiny she's been running away from for far too long.

"Wait."

He peers at her curiously, raising those perfectly arched eyebrows, and she gulps, wondering when the hell it became so easy for him to paralyze her with one probing gaze.

What has she gotten herself into?

"I just –" She breaks off, searching for the right words. She knows all the things she _shouldn't _say, of course, but she doesn't have a pre-planned speech here. She doesn't know what she's doing.

(But then again, it's not like she ever knows what she's doing with him.)

"You can't kiss me again because this thing between us is way too fragile," she says finally, pushing through to the other side, wishing she had said all of this months ago. "You can't kiss me again because I'm not ready for the consequences. You can't kiss me again because I can't do this with you all the way right now, and I need to do it all the way, Damon. You can't kiss me again because you scare me. God, you always have."

He reels backward, shocked. "I scare you?" He echoes, wonder flooding his voice.

She nods wearily, overwhelmed by the weight of everything she's just admitted. "Whatever we have scares me, okay?" She says quickly, averting her eyes. "It's too much."

He shakes his head, affection clouding his crystalline gaze as he tilts her chin up again, his fingers smooth and wonderful. "It's not," he promises her, and the certainty of his words is embedded in his touch. "You're just not ready for it."

She looks up at him, drinks in the acceptance in his gaze. "You're right," she says softly. "I'm not ready."

And she isn't, not really.

He can't hide his disappointment – his face falls, his shoulders sag, his fingers hesitate on her skin. She boldly reaches up to touch his cheek, spurred on by the ineffable hope bursting from his every pore.

He looks so human that it damn near breaks her heart.

"But someday," she whispers, knowing somehow that this is what he needs to hear (that this is what she needs to say, because it's more true than he will ever know), tracing the lines of his face, "I will be."

He smiles, pure and warm, and she can't help but think that this is where she's meant to be. Here, with him, no matter what else is going on.

He turns to leave, and she calls him back once more.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" She asks quietly, looking at him with more love than she can admit – to him, to herself, to anyone.

He nods.

So she lets him in. She lets him into her house, her bed, and finally, her heart.

Because when their someday comes, she'll be more than ready for it.

_fin_

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you liked it! It's more stream-of-consciousness than I usually write, so I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts :)<strong>


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